


A Tired Symphony

by xdandelionxbloomx



Series: Tired Symphony Verse [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Geralt has trouble communicating, M/M, Oops, also I got lost in Jaskier's thoughts a few times, but he has FeelingsTM, if you love me let me gOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooo, sorry not sorry because tbh he's a wonderfully complex character, this is a fix-it fic that my brain screamed at me to write and I couldn't rest until I'd done so, this started out as a short oneshot and it's like 13k now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22168036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xdandelionxbloomx/pseuds/xdandelionxbloomx
Summary: Silence reigned between them. Outside there was the dull sound of training swords clashing and Jaskier turned his gaze towards the window, watching the sky outside.“I’m-- sorry.” Geralt said. It sounded truly remorseful.Jaskier took a deep breath and then tipped himself slightly to the side, pressing his shoulder against the witcher’s.“I know.”-Vignettes of Jaskier's life after the last episode - a fix-it fic.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Tired Symphony Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597723
Comments: 284
Kudos: 3613





	A Tired Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for The Witcher fandom - please be gentle with me. I'm still learning everyone's voice, but Jaskier grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go. My take on a sort of fix-it after the last episode because that fight was Big Hurt™. Not beta'd because I don't really know anyone else online for that sort of thing - please be gentle with any errors! Rated teen mostly because there's a fair amount of cursing.

Jaskier had always had a hunger for _stories_. 

In his younger years he had attributed it to the hunger of knowledge, but it had never sat quite right. No matter how many academic texts he consumed, no matter how many books he read critically, they could never satiate the need that he felt somewhere deep - somewhere in the marrow of his bones. 

Graduating with high grades and _honors_ from Oxenfurt wasn’t enough. There had been an uncertain year of lingering and then he had traveled - there was a longing he couldn’t fulfill, but perhaps he’d find it in the world. 

Truthfully, he found much of the world rather dismal (and as he’d worried - unfulfilling). Monsters - in the form of humans and creatures - roamed so freely that it felt as if he was never safe. He became quite adept to sleeping lightly, to _running_ \- because if there was one thing that Jaskier _wasn’t_ it was a fighter. He had always admired those with the tenacity to run headlong into battle, but he hadn’t enough gumption to perform such an act. He’d stick to plucking at his lute and singing their praises - his words were always what he’d wielded best, after all. 

The longer that Jaskier had traveled, the more unhappy songs - stories - he accumulated. He hardly ever sang them for a crowd - he wasn’t daft! People needed a _distraction_ from their circumstances, not a reminder. So those sad songs stayed tucked away, played on nights when he had a room to himself or camped somewhere in the woods with only the stars above to keep him company. 

Running into the witcher had been the single best and worst thing to happen to him. 

Witchers, at least, slayed monsters. For a price, yes, but it was a better service than he’d seen anyone else devote themselves to in… years. So Jaskier dug his fingers in and held on for all he was worth. 

Geralt of Rivia was--- 

Jaskier liked to think he was the single most interesting, longest running story that Jaskier had ever bore witness to. 

Granted, it was filled with many chapters - many, many, many chapters that made up many songs, but it was all a bigger story. 

And it was the best and worst story Jaskier had ever recorded - and he never wanted to stop. 

Even when Geralt had screamed at him atop the mountain, he had stepped away to gather the story from others - to sing of a witcher because Geralt deserved for people to _know_ his truth. (Jaskier couldn’t think too long about his message or he’d find himself becoming heartsick - he didn’t always _enjoy_ being so-- “An open wound.” One of his professors had said, appraising him after a set of poetry he had turned in. “Under a thick bandage, tucked beneath a thicker cloak.” The thick accent and rough voice had been oddly soft and Jaskier shied away from it, though the words had lingered with him for a long time after.) 

His was a hunger that the witcher had fed quite well for a time. 

The best stories were human stories and Jaskier thought that he had never met anyone more human than Geralt of Rivia. Even their parting had proved that - Geralt, truly an open and ugly wound, eyes full of pain and confusion. He looked smaller than Jaskier had ever seen him despite his threats, despite the way he had leaned into his shouting - as if that might scare him away. As if he hadn’t heard him yell before.

The only difference here, Jaskier would note when he was drunk nearly to sleep, was that Geralt didn’t need bandaging. He was a wound that needed to breathe for a bit. So Jaskier let him, he’d say, hiccup, and then grin without it ever quite meeting his eyes. 

_Want to hear a tale?_ He’d ask, to whatever unfortunate soul got stuck listening to him. Usually the answer was a resounding no, and yet Jaskier would continue on anyway - in a soft, warbling, off-pitch slur into gentle songs about Geralt of Rivia’s softer insides (that he protected with snarls and swords that flashed in the moonlight). It was all terribly tragic (and in some ways beautiful - he hated that). 

Some of the best ballads were about broken hearts, after all. 

In some ways, the distance helped Jaskier, too. In some ways, it was the most painful thing that he’d ever endured - and he’d almost died before! (There are nights when he wakes up with the ghost of copper in his mouth, hand clutching at his own throat as he trembles.)

There were nights where Jaskier traveled the roads, a dagger that Geralt had bought him tucked into a sheath at his hip - he has never used it, despite the lessons Geralt had _tried_ to impart on him with a firm expression that hid the worry that he knew existed beneath the surface. The sky spanned wide above him, moonlight making the world strange and unknown even to the most weary of men. Sometimes he’d hear a monster call - a name would provide itself in a growling voice somewhere in the back of his mind and Jaskier would steer himself towards avoiding whatever creature lurked the best he knew how. Those nights Jaskier would not pluck at his lute. Those nights Jaskier’s heart ached worse than the soles of his feet. Those nights Jaskier would think of silver hair and mourn something he had never expected to hold - something that he wondered if Melitele had handed him herself. 

Someone had to care - truly care - for the witcher, after all, and no matter how heavy the weight of it was and Jaskier would not - could not - hand it back to the Goddess. 

She had crossed their paths for a reason and Jaskier had been hopelessly, terribly, horribly gone on Geralt of Rivia for many more years than he cared to admit. 

He was, Jaskier would croon to a crackling fire, Jaskier’s favorite story of all. 

It was, Jaskier supposed, appropriate he would mourn his place in that story. 

+++

It took nearly a year for Jaskier to run into the witcher once more. 

Inexplicably, Jaskier had a _feeling_ as he leaned up against the counter at a tavern, tapping his quill against his tankard of ( _not_ terrible, surprisingly) ale. He had lifted his gaze, scanning the crowd packed in tight, and _there_. 

He knew the shape of the witcher’s shoulders too well not to miss them as they slipped through the door. He had seen the red, too, and Jaskier should not be surprised that he was here for a contract. They took Geralt a bit everywhere, after all. He still remembered the time they’d had to sail and Jaskier became aware that he got painfully seasick. 

Jaskier tucked the quill behind his ear, rolling up the parchment, uncaring of ink smudges as he followed the witcher out into the evening. 

Geralt was already across the road that led through the village, approaching the familiar sight of Roach waiting patiently for her master. She tossed her head with a snort when she heard the familiar deep rolling, “Hm.” 

So he hadn’t changed in _that_ regard at least. 

Jaskier debated on calling out, the merits and pitfalls - but his mouth seemed to make the decision for him, as was usually the case. 

“Geralt!” 

The witcher immediately froze, shoulders tensing even further. He reminded Jaskier of a taut bowstring - and _that_ ought to go in a song. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? 

His steps were no longer a rush to catch up to the witcher - he approached and circled around to stand in front of Roach, blocking Geralt’s path should he regain the use of his limbs (and wipe off that mildly surprised expression, which for Geralt was utter shock if you knew how to read him). 

“I must admit, I’m rather relieved. Never _really_ thought a monster or a bandit might succeed in killing the White Wolf, but I _do_ have to acknowledge it’s all rather nasty out there and who _knows_ what might have happened? You haven’t had a bard to chronicle your stories, I had to guess. Guesswork can be fun, but only for a while.” Jaskier took a moment to fold up the parchment he’d been clutching in his hand, tucking it away. It was a moment intended to let the witcher gather himself - he’d mostly schooled his expression by the time Jaskier spoke again. 

“It’s good to see you, Geralt.” It came out too honest and Geralt’s eyes flashed - irritation, relief, confusion-- Geralt cycled through emotions faster than the best actors he’d ever known during stressful auditions. 

“Jaskier.” The rumble nearly made him close his eyes to savor the sound. He had, irrationally, missed Geralt’s growl of a voice. To many it might have seemed grating, but Jaskier had always held the sound of it close to his heart. 

“Move.” It was rough, and Jaskier wrinkled his nose as he opened his eyes. 

“Truthfully that’s not what I’d imagined you saying. Maybe I’m sorry to start with, or how are you doing? You know, the sort of things that friends greet each other with after a bit of a spat--” 

“We’re not friends.” Geralt grunted, eyes narrowed. They stand like that for a few moments, Jaskier beginning to wonder how much he could push. A year must seem a bit faster to a witcher - no matter how it felt like it dragged on for him. 

“No, well.” Jaskier started and then huffed - “Old business partners, then. I do hope you’ve been--” And a hand darted out and shoved him to the side, nearly making him trip over his own feet in a struggle to right himself, a noise of surprise crawling up out of his throat. “ _Rude!_ ” That’s his cue to let him go, though, so Jaskier stood to the side, arms crossed as Geralt clambered into his saddle. He looked sore, but Jaskier was more than willing to put money on the fact that Geralt would be riding at least one or two towns away before he would rest just to avoid him. 

“You know-” Jaskier started at the same time that Geralt muttered something to Roach under his breath. Jaskier lifted his hands to cup his mouth as the witcher urged the horse into a trot away. “You could at least give me a tale next time! One can only replay the same tune so many times before it grows worse than the stalest of bread!” He watched the horse break into a gallop, hands dropping to his sides as he stood there in the middle of the road until he could no longer hear the hoofbeats and the sound of clinking metal. 

+++

It took significantly less time to run into the witcher again. 

As it happened, Jaskier wasn’t even in a populated area. He’d camped for the night in an area that he thought was fairly safe - he hadn’t heard anything big in the woods and a quick scout had determined no signs of bandits. 

Jaskier was deeply lost in sleep - not even dreaming - when he was yanked into consciousness violently. 

A body had crashed into his and nearly sent him rolling into the fire. His hand darted out, shoving against the ground to prevent it from happening, but the side of it still hit the coals and he let out an unintelligible yell - confused and pained. The weight of the other body against him was gone and Jaskier was left to hurriedly sit, scrambling to his feet after and trying to blink away the blur of sleep. His hand throbbed and he was aware of bruises blossoming along his shoulder and leg, wincing as he searched the underbrush, eyes squinted in the low light. He cradled his hand to his chest, breath caught captive in his chest when he heard something scream and the sick sound of sword through flesh (and bone). 

Whoever it was hadn’t been invested in him and quite honestly he wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around and see exactly what was going on. He rushed to gather up his pack and lute, swinging it over his shoulder, hissing in pain all the while and biting down tears. 

Shit. 

He probably wasn’t going to be able to play-- for at least a few days (maybe a week or worse if he got unlucky with infection). 

Before he could turn tail and bolt, someone stepped out of the brush and dark of the trees. A flash of yellow and Jaskier stared dumbly - 

“ _Geralt_?” A croak, injured hand visibly shaking where it hovered over the strap of his lute, gaping at the sight of the witcher as he approached the fire. 

He wore a slight snarl - “Of course it’s you.” For a moment, Jaskier thought to be offended, and the strangest (perhaps not when he was injured) urge to snap something back struck him. It didn’t last, not when Geralt stepped into his space, snagging the wrist of his shaking hand, turning it so that the witcher could see the damage. 

“Fuck.” It was muttered in that low growl of his and despite Jaskier’s better sense, he didn’t try to fight - although he jerked a little as Geralt used his free hand to spread his fingers and get an idea of the extent of the forming blisters. The witcher let go and pinned Jaskier with a glare, spinning on his heel after a solid fifteen seconds. Jaskier watched him disappear and thought about walking away - but that hadn’t been a good-bye. Jaskier knows Geralt’s _I’ve-had-enough_ noises and his _goodbye_ tone - that hadn’t been one of them. 

So Jaskier stood dumbly beside a dying fire, hand blistered, pack and lute hanging from him awkwardly. He wanted to remove them, but the throbbing pain told him that it was probably a bad idea. 

It took all of maybe five minutes for Geralt to return, grasping a small jar in his hand. He was already wrenching it open by the time he stood in front of Jaskier, lid caught between his teeth - a sharp canine on display. He had lost his gloves along the way and Jaskier watched as he dipped his fingers into the salve. It didn’t look or smell very nice, but the moment that it was smeared over the blisters Jaskier’s knees nearly gave out. It didn’t stop the pain entirely, but it was a near thing and the relief was overwhelming. 

“Wow. That works miracles. That what you use on your stuff when you’re on the road?” Jaskier found his voice quite suddenly. He gave his fingers a little wiggle and winced, but it was much better. Dewy eyes roved over the sight of the witcher, struggling to properly see him in the dark -

Geralt rolled reflective eyes, raised a hand with a burst of energy that made the hair on the nape of his neck stand up, and suddenly the fire sprang to life once more bathing them in orange light. 

“Oh! Disgusting.” Jaskier pointed with his good hand at the blood coating Geralt’s cheek and neck on his left side. “I mean this is also disgusting, but it works so I’ll endure the smell. I’m not sure if I should say thanks or not - technically this was your fault.” He wiggled his bad hand just a bit. “But I also don’t know what that blood belonged to and based on the way you’re scrunching up your brow I bet that this was the better option.” He pursed his lips - “Though that still doesn’t mean I have to thank you. Maybe I’ll call it even. Your apology since you seem to have a terrible way with words - not that it’s something necessarily _bad_ , there are times when I appreciate how you listen--” 

Geralt, in the time that he’d been talking, had screwed the lid of the jar back on and tossed it into the soft grass. Strong hands - still a bit slimy - reached out and snagged his pack. He pulled it from Jaskier’s shoulder without much ceremony and it jostled the bard a bit as he let out an offended noise. 

“ _Hey_ !” And Geralt - the _nerve_ , really! - proceeded to take his lute from him, too. Granted, Jaskier could have fought a lot harder but he also felt a _tiny_ bit woozy. He swayed on his feet and Geralt pushed him down to sit in the grass, kneeling down beside him. 

“Rest.” Growled low, glowering at him, before turning that gaze out into the forest. 

Jaskier really wanted to protest, but the words he wanted to say ended up being a slurred, confused mess and the next thing he knew was total darkness. 

Morning found Jaskier waking to the sound of clinking and plodding hoofbeats. He peeled his eyes open, squinting and blinking furiously against the light as he realized he was staring up at Roach - who had a hoof far too close to his head to be entirely comfortable. 

He shied away, pushing himself up to sit, scooting back to also become aware that Geralt had already settled himself in the saddle. A small griffin head hung from ropes attached to Roach’s saddle - it was nearly a miracle that Jaskier didn’t gag at the smell. Monster blood was among the worst, but he couldn’t quite explain _why_ . Maybe it was the _wrongness_ \- there was a hint of copper, but it smelled more like _rot_ most of the time. Not that the head probably hadn’t been given a couple of hours to sit-- 

It was only making his stomach turn to continue thinking about it. 

Jaskier squinted up at the sight of Geralt - who refused to look down at him. 

“Get up.” Growled - annoyed, he knew, and yet Jaskier still took his time hoisting himself up out of the grass. 

“And where, pray-tell, are we going?” Jaskier peered down at his hand, surprised to find it only slightly pink. The angry blisters from the night before were gone and it only ached a bit as he gathered up his pack and lute.

Geralt grunted and didn’t offer anything more. Truthfully, Jaskier hadn’t even expected this much so he let it slide - at least for the moment. 

It _was_ a bit of an awkward traveling situation - it wasn’t as if what happened was acknowledged. He didn’t think it would be, but it still _existed_ and filled the quiet spaces. So Jaskier hummed - sang occasionally, rambled when an interesting thought would come to mind. 

The moment a town came into view, the witcher tossed something at him. Jaskier fumbled with it, nearly dropping the small coin purse in surprise.  
  
“Stay there.” Geralt rumbled and then gently tapped Roach’s sides with his heels, sending the horse into a gallop - before Jaskier could really process what it all meant (or ask one of the ten questions on the tip of his tongue) the witcher was shrinking into the distance. 

+++

Jaskier didn’t like to think of himself as a fool, not really. (It just seemed that Geralt of Rivia truly managed to make him rather dense when it came to matters of the heart - and head, at times.)

He knew that he had brains, despite the bumbling nature he presented to the world. He was not an idiot - were he as truly ridiculous as the image he presented he would have long been dead. 

Despite that, he had to admit that it was fool _ish_ to stay for three days in town. He hadn’t had time to ask if Geralt was coming back or not and maybe there’d been a bit of hope that he would. 

The witcher’s shadow didn’t grace the tavern, the stables, or the inn, though, and Jaskier supposed once he collected his coin from the contract he’d simply moved on. 

It was-- 

Disappointing. 

So after a solid morning of calling himself various things (heartsick _fool_ among them) - and perhaps a bit of writing - Jaskier gathered up his things and took back to the road. His hand was entirely healed by then and the sound of lute strings floated behind him as he set out once more with no real destination in mind. 

Each time he stopped to earn a bit of coin, he’d tuck a little into the coin purse - it took weeks, but it became fat and heavy, heavier than when Geralt had first given it to him. He’d only intended to pay the witcher back, but it seemed that he couldn’t quite stop himself from tucking away a couple of extra ones each time anyways. He knew how Geralt had traveled before his songs - even after they’d started to spread wide he’d had coin trouble at times.

The next instance he ran into the witcher, he was standing in the middle of one of the largest Novigrad city squares frowning at the vendor in front of him. Jaskier knew it wouldn’t hit him, but it was still cathartic to take the coin purse and hurl it at Geralt. 

The witcher caught it without a problem, a snarl already forming on his lips, but when he realized just what was in his hand he stopped to blink - 

“For the inn.” Jaskier said, and found a bit of satisfaction in the fact that Geralt truly did appear to be surprised. Something flashed in those golden eyes that he didn’t quite recognize and he watched the witcher tuck the coin purse away, Jaskier taking the chance to sidle up beside him. 

“So am I to take it that you found the girl?” Jaskier asked, tucking his hands behind his back as he let his gaze wander over the vendor’s stall. He doubted that Yennefer would send Geralt to do _dress-shopping_ \- not to mention the last time he’d seen them she’d been fairly upset. (Fairly might be an understatement, but Jaskier had never thought it was a good idea. In some ways he might admire her, really, but the way she treated the people around her was not to be envied.) 

“Yes.” Geralt rumbled, and reached for a dress that read dark indigo - though leaning towards a purple. He doubted it would be as flattering as the dark royal blue one he’d spotted and Jaskier reached for it, holding it out to the witcher. 

Geralt met his gaze and Jaskier lifted a brow, silent challenge. A heavy sigh and then the witcher took the dress, checking the size before throwing a bit of coin towards the vendor. 

Jaskier smiled - just for a moment - before it slipped away. He gave a slight nod - 

“Good to see you.” 

At the same time that Geralt said - 

“You didn’t stay.” 

Jaskier wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information, frowning and eyeing the witcher. That, after all, meant that Geralt had gone back to check at some point. He found his words when golden eyes turned on him once more, as if he was checking that Jaskier hadn’t slipped into the crowd. 

“Was I to believe you were coming back?” Jaskier asked, and his arms crossed over his chest. “I waited a while, you know. Didn’t just leave after the first night.” He admitted, despite the voice in the back of his mind telling him that it was a stupid idea to do so. 

Geralt, then, at least had the decency to give a grimace. A grunt. 

“There were some complications.” And how strange it was to think he had missed that voice so terribly.

“When are there not?” Jaskier pointed out, rolling his shoulders. “We’re here now.” He tipped his head - “Shall we go to a tavern? I do think I have the right to assume you had something you wished to speak with me about, then, yes? Wouldn’t expect you to come back otherwise.” 

Geralt just huffed and grumbled out something too low for Jaskier to understand. Then, _Geralt of Rivia_ , folded the dress he’d bought carefully and tucked it under his arm. It seemed that being a guardian had changed him. Jaskier felt his heart soften - as it usually did when he saw Geralt do something kind. 

Geralt led the way to the nearest tavern, pushing the door open with a bit more force than Jaskier thought strictly necessary. A moment of quiet, the chattering stopping at the sight of a witcher entering - and then it started up again a bit quieter. It didn’t stay that way for long. By the time Geralt had dropped himself into a chair (with his back to the wall as always) the sound of voices had risen once more. 

Jaskier settled himself into a chair without a care of which way his back faced - it was hard to be afraid when he sat at the same table as the witcher after all. “Going to provide me with a tale, then? It’s been rather dry - haven’t really known which way you were traveling. Must admit, though, everyone seems to be into some heartbreak songs these days, coin’s been alright, though I’m sure you could tell--” 

“Sorry.” 

Jaskier stilled. 

Geralt had spoken over him, rough, lip slightly curled into a sneer, voice pained like it hurt to pull it up out of his chest. _Geralt of Rivia_ (and this was twice in the same day that the witcher had managed to make him think of him in that tone) had just-- apologized. Correct? Yes. 

For once, Jaskier had no idea at all what to say. There wasn’t even a terrible option. His usually buzzing mind had just gone blank and he blinked slowly at the witcher. 

“You’re--” Jaskier started, voice stilted and tripping over itself. 

“Sorry. About. The--” Geralt wouldn’t look at him and a hand lifted to make a loose gesture. There wasn’t much Geralt could be apologizing for. It was just simply a shock to hear it aloud. 

“Huh.” Jaskier managed, finally, and something like relief made his chest tight while a weight simultaneously lifted from his shoulders. 

Silence for a moment, Geralt staring down at the table as if it had personally insulted Roach. 

“It was forgiven the moment it happened.” Jaskier’s voice is quiet, and it was nearly a miracle that he didn’t reach out to place a hand on the witcher’s arm. He waved a hand of his own, puffing out a breath.

“A wounded animal recognizes another wounded animal.” Jaskier said, pursing his lips. He sat for a moment, letting it sink in - “You needed some time. I’m not as much of an idiot as you might believe, Geralt.” And the words held weight, turning his cornflower blue eyes on the witcher. He dragged his gaze over his profile and wished he could sweep back that stubborn piece of hair that never wanted to stay in that low half-pony that Geralt was so fond of wearing. 

Geralt’s shoulders twitched - those who didn’t know him wouldn’t see how just a drop of tension bleed out, how they lowered just a bit, lifting his gaze from the surface of the table. They scanned the tavern absently, before settling on the bard beside him. 

“You’d like Ciri.” The witcher said, in that rolling voice of his, and Jaskier slips from the moment. He hummed softly, lips tugging into a crooked smile. 

“Oh, I’m sure I would. Any girl that has the great witcher, the White Wolf, _Geralt of Rivia_ going dress-shopping is certainly someone _I’d_ like to know.” His tongue pressed to the backs of his teeth and stifled a snicker at the way Geralt’s nose scrunched up, pinning him with a glare. 

Jaskier wasn’t fooled, though. The corners of the witcher’s mouth were wobbling. 

Golden eyes rolled away from him with a grunt. 

Between bouts of silence and Jaskier filling Geralt in on some of his travels, Geralt would provide stilted bits and pieces of Ciri. She sounded like a remarkable young lady. She’d originally started out training under Geralt, but Vesemir had stepped in - Jaskier had a bit of a suspicion that Geralt might be a bit too soft with her for what she might have to face. It was why he was on the road again - taking contracts to save some coin before returning to Kaer Morhen. 

“And Yennefer?” Jaskier asked, eventually, because his mouth always ran him into trouble. Geralt grimaced and shook his head. 

“No.”

Jaskier didn’t say anything for a bit, and to his surprise Geralt started first this time. “She-- found a way to break it.” Geralt’s jaw was clenched so hard that Jaskier thought it a wonder that his teeth didn’t crack. “I can’t-- feel it. Certainty.” 

Jaskier turned that over in his mind for a moment. “Maybe it’s a good thing.” He offered and glanced over at Geralt. “It’s the saying - if you love something, let it go, you know?” Geralt curled his lip, but Jaskier simply continued on. “If it doesn’t come back, you never had it. If it does come back, love it forever.” Jaskier’s smile settled a bit wobbly on his lips, but he hummed out a soft note. “If she comes back, you’ll know, Geralt.” He said it quietly, and tamed his own heart by patting the table lightly. 

“Witchers don’t--” Geralt’s rumble was exhausted.

“You’re about to say some bullshit so save us both the time and don’t.” Jaskier said, and leaned back in his chair. “It doesn’t matter what other people say, nor whatever the legend is. You and I know well enough that most legends come from a place of fear. Basilisks? Don’t really kill you with a single glance. And witchers feel.” Jaskier left no room for argument despite the way Geralt grunted at him, frowning. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier shook his head - “The people who say that are afraid of you and use it as an excuse. I think you’ll find that I’m not one of them.” And that’s that. 

“Do you really want to sit here all evening without some ale?” Jaskier ignored the way the witcher stared at him, burning a hole into the side of his head. Geralt’s gaze had always been heavy - not necessarily in a wholly unpleasant way, really, and therein lies the problem. 

+++

The witcher left in the early hours of morning. 

He had somewhere to be by nightfall and Jaskier watched him go, fingers plucking a sweet melody. His head tipped to the side and some words came to him, ones that he mumbled under his breath. 

It took shape over the next couple of weeks and to his own (delighted) surprise, he ran into Geralt somewhere in the wilds of Velen. He’d been on the way to Oxenfurt for old time’s sake when the hooves approached - rapidly might he add - from behind. 

Jaskier’s first instinct had been to step out of the road, ducking to the side, peering back to see who was coming. 

Lo and behold - the White Wolf. Witcher Geralt of Rivia. One dark brow lifted at the sight of him and Jaskier huffed as Roach slowed to a trot. It became a leisurely walk by the time the horse moved to pass him. 

“Jaskier.” Acknowledged in a rough voice, golden eyes darting over him. (To check for injuries, probably, based on how incompetent the witcher thought he was.) 

“Geralt.” Jaskier watched Roach start to pass and then -  
  
“Coming?” Geralt questioned, gaze back on the road. Jaskier’s heart stuttered in betrayal behind the cage of his ribs and, despite himself, he scrambled to get onto the road behind him. 

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asked, and didn’t sound breathless at all. He was perfectly fine. 

“Hm.” 

And so Jaskier trailed beside them as he had what felt like so long ago. 

Nightfall came quickly and the howl of some creature in the distance made Jaskier both thrilled - it had been so long since he’d had good material to work with - and _slightly_ uncomfortable. 

Geralt stopped them to make camp when Jaskier finally gave in and complained about his feet. He normally didn’t keep up such a steady pace through the day and it was taking its toll on him - he hadn’t done this regularly in a long time. 

“Gotten soft, bard.” Geralt grunted as he set up the fire, Jaskier sitting cross-legged in the grass. He glared at Geralt until he realized the witcher was near smiling. 

“I’ve always been soft.” Jaskier muttered - “Not all of us swing a sword and ride into battle against hordes of monsters for a living.” He pointed out, and swung his lute around to rest in his lap, absentmindedly plucking the soft tune that had been stuck in his head for days. 

“Need better boots.” Geralt told him, feeding the fire another piece of wood, making it climb towards the sky. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure what to say to that. It felt like it implied further travels together in their future and Jaskier didn’t want to let his heart get away from him. 

“They’ll clash with my clothes.” He ended up complaining just to keep the silence from reigning. 

Geralt dropped himself down onto the ground beside him, a saddlebag beside him. He pulled off his gloves before digging into the bag, pulling out a loaf of bread that he ripped in half. He offered one half to Jaskier, who stared down at it dumbly until the witcher nearly shoved it into his face. He took it with a slight fumble, fingers brushing Geralt’s and sending his rabbit heart running. 

“Eat not talk.” Geralt rumbled, and dug into his own piece of bread. He bit off a huge mouthful, chewing methodically and looking for all the world rather calm about the whole situation. If Jaskier knew more about this whole endeavor, he’d think that Geralt looked-- content. 

“You know that’s not for me.” Jaskier informed, but ripped off a piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. His lute still rested on his lap and he leaned against it slightly, watching the fire. 

A warbling wail made Jaskier grimace, glancing towards the trees. 

“Nightwraith.” Geralt answered the unspoken question. “I’ll kill it after I eat.” 

Jaskier blinked and then, because it was just so absurd, he began to laugh. It was something he stifled into a handful of bread at first, but it wasn’t able to be smothered out. He shook his head, grinning at Geralt from behind his fingers, bread stuffed into his cheek. 

“You really are something else. I’d almost forgotten it.” Jaskier informed - because it really sounded like Geralt was putting off a chore rather than going after a _monster_. 

Geralt’s lips twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. His eyes were light, though, and Jaskier shook his head again, taking another mouthful of bread. 

+++

They managed to find a room in the tiny village they pass through on their way to-- 

Well, Geralt’s not exactly been clear with where they were going just yet. Not for failure of guessing! Jaskier had gone through at least fifteen places and every one received one of those _no_ grunts. 

Jaskier was thinking of the next place to guess while Geralt went to fetch something. He also hadn’t said what he needed, just muttered something out and ducked out of the room. Jaskier wasn’t particularly fussy - he could see Roach from the window, nibbling on a bit of hay towards the stables. If Geralt were to leave, he’d take the horse. 

Jasker readied himself for bed, slipping under the sheets and finding the most comfortable spot on the side of the bed facing the inside of the room. (Geralt had an obsession about being able to see the door.) Sharing a bed was always the most stressful part of traveling together, but somehow Jaskier had managed never to wrap himself around Geralt. He liked to think that maybe it was because Geralt never really let himself relax and so it was easy not to curl up against someone tensely uncomfortable. 

Geralt came back just as Jaskier was slipping into sleep - he couldn’t really be blamed. Geralt had no real schedule and Jaskier felt more tired traveling with the witcher than he had in a long time. The bed dipped and Jaskier mumbled something sleepily, to which replied a quiet - but gravelly - “Sleep.” 

And Jaskier did. 

Morning was surprisingly pleasant. 

Jaskier woke on his own time without Geralt throwing his clothes onto his face, rumbling about the road. In fact, when Jaskier woke, Geralt was still asleep on his side of the bed. It was _rare_. 

Jaskier glanced over at him, the slight furrow of his brow. He was still too bleary to be considered properly awake, but he was awake enough to know not to reach out - no matter how much he wanted to smooth out the worry there. Touching was-- carefully controlled. He helped Geralt when he needed to be patched up. He helped Geralt bathe on the occasions when he was just _horribly_ disgusting. And sometimes there were pats on the back or a shove - a punch, once or twice. 

Jaskier couldn’t stay in bed too long like this - it was dangerous. So he hauled himself out of the bed as careful as possible, getting dressed quietly, doing his best not to wake the witcher. 

When he looked up from buttoning his pants, he nearly jumped like a startled cat at the sight of Geralt. He’d rolled over to face Jaskier and was just watching him silently. 

“That’s creepy, you know.” Jaskier whispered, huffing and shaking out his nerves. Geralt rumbled a soft sound of acknowledgement and pointed towards his own pile of items. (Geralt really was a bit of a heathen at times.) 

“Boots.” Geralt’s voice was still rough with sleep and Jaskier was unused to hearing it, swallowing thickly as he went to fetch Geralt’s boots. And then he realized there was a second pair sitting next to them. They were, interestingly enough, rather _nice_ . The leather looked a rich brown, one that he immediately recognized would go with many of his colors. His fingers brushed over them and he felt his heart go soft, a certain amount of awe creeping up on him. The leather was actually fairly sturdy despite how oddly soft they felt to the touch and he tugged them on, doing up the buckles he found, adjusting them to his preference.  
  
After a moment of peering down at them, he spread his arms a little and glanced up at Geralt, doing everything in his power _not_ to show how much it touched his heart. 

“How do I look? They do clash, but I have to give it to you - far less than I expected. You’re better at men’s fashion than women’s clearly, but that’s alright. I can help Ciri-” Jaskier rambled, dropping his arms in the process. 

“Good.” Geralt interrupted him and then yawned. The witcher should never look _cute_. It was something that did not go in the same sentence as Geralt of Rivia. And yet-- here he was, with his nose scrunched up and sharp canines on full display looking a bit like a sleepy lion with the golden morning light playing over him. 

“What?” Jaskier asked, dumbly. 

“Hm.” Geralt decided not to repeat himself then, and hoisted himself out of bed with a heavy stretch. Jaskier started gathering up his things so as not to stare as the witcher got dressed. 

“You’ll need them to get through the mountains.” Geralt’s voice sounded more awake now and honestly Jaskier missed the sleep that made his voice even more gravelly than before.

“Where are we _going_ ?” Jaskier asked, _again_ , pulling the strap of his lute over his shoulder. He’d downsized on the pack - travelling with Geralt was nice in that way - and instead had a bag that hung at his hip and slung over his shoulder. More of a satchel than anything. He pulled that on, too, as Geralt hummed a low noise. 

“Kaer Morhen.” Geralt answered, like it doesn’t pull the ground out from under him. 

“What.” It ended up flat, not even a question, Jaskier off balance. 

“Ciri is there.” Geralt said like it explained everything. It didn’t explain anything at all and Jaskier’s breath hitched. 

“Am I allowed there? Don’t other witchers live there? I’m not a fighter, Geralt. I’m not gonna-- Wait, would they--” Jaskier may or may not have worked himself into a tizzy. Geralt paused in securing the buckles on his armor, brows furrowing as he gets a proper look at Jaskier. 

A low grunt.  
  
“You’ll be fine.” Geralt muttered, but it sounded surprisingly concerned. Jaskier patted himself down, made sure he had everything as he checked his bag - mostly to avoid looking at Geralt because that’s the kind of tone that makes his very bones shake (just a bit). See, that’s the tone of _I have you_ even if Geralt would never admit to their friendship. 

“Yes. Yes, alright. I suppose I would - I do want to meet Ciri. I’ve been wondering about her - and destiny linking you and such. It’s actually good material, you know. Chosen family is always such a lovely subject. It’s a shame that most just want to hear about the monster killing, you know.” Jaskier huffed, and Geralt grumbled a low noise.  
  
“Isn’t that the point?” Geralt asked him, pulling the door to their room open. 

“Oh, maybe a bit.” Jaskier admitted, as he walked through - “But I certainly stick around for _more_ than monster killing. It’s really about the stories and the truth inside them.” By the time they made it outside, Jaskier was trailing slightly behind Geralt. “And you, my friend-” He ignored the slight grunt Geralt made at that. “Are ripe with stories. True ballad material, though they mostly have gone out of style if outside of theatre. It’s a shame.” 

Geralt made a beeline for Roach, which was really unsurprising. Jaskier leaned up against a beam of the stables as he watched the witcher ready the mare for travel. 

“See, here’s a truth at the center of very nearly any story to tell about you - witchers have hearts. Granted, they also have needs and as such need a bit of coin as the most popular raves - but _Royal_ for example. You didn’t have to help Talu at all and yet you beat down a _royal wyvern_ for her free of coin to protect her children. Rather kind if you asked me.” 

“No one did.” The witcher rumbled and hooked a boot in the stirrup of the saddle, swinging himself up. 

“No, but they ask you.” Jaskier pointed out. “If you can feel. And you never answer, so I took it upon myself. Stop complaining. You haven’t had a knife thrown at you in ages - at least not without warning.” 

Geralt grunted, a peculiar expression taking his face. He pursed his lips, looking into the far distance long enough that Jaskier turned his head to follow his gaze. Nothing to be found except for the road. “Are you actually sensing something or are you just brooding?” Jaskier asked, turning his head to take a half step back from the hand that was suddenly in front of his face. He frowned slightly, eyes darting up to Geralt’s face. 

“We’ll move faster.” The witcher said, simply - and that had never been an issue before. Jaskier gaped at him.  
  
“Are you really-- I’m not dying again, am I? Right?” Jaskier asked, and took the gloved hand anyway. He let himself be tugged up onto the horse, fingers hooking in Geralt’s armor once he was settled, making sure he didn’t fall off as the witcher urged Roach into a light trot. 

“Right?” Jaskier stressed and felt Geralt-- shudder? No, that was consistent. A stuttered growling noise and Jaskier realized that Geralt was properly _laughing_ at him. 

Jaskier immediately wanted to listen to it always. 

“Oh, fuck off.” Jaskier muttered and then yelped as Geralt urged the horse into a quick canter, arms instinctively wrapping around his middle so as not to be jostled off. 

Geralt laughed again and despite himself, Jaskier hide his smile against the back of the witcher’s shoulder. 

+++

Kaer Morhen was-- 

Not what Jaskier expected. 

Granted, he supposed a crumbling fortress was apt for witchers. It seems like the sort of aesthetic they’d cling to. The insides weren’t that terrible, though, and Jaskier had to admit some of the woodwork was nice. 

Their footsteps did echo in the main room that they entered - it was wide and the ceiling high, sending the sound of their boots back at them. (Speaking of boots, Geralt was right. These boots helped his feet _tremendously_. He couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed Geralt hadn’t done it earlier, or feel relieved that apparently he’d proved a worthy traveling companion.) 

Jaskier had opened his mouth with the intention to ask a question - quietly - when footsteps came barreling towards them. 

“Ciri!” The gruff voice that echoed from down the hall had to be Vesemir based on what he’s heard from Geralt’s - very few - stories. 

Jaskier blinked at the sight of the girl running towards them. Geralt braced a foot against the ground and Jaskier glanced at him before back at the sight of her-- 

Hair white as new-fallen snow - not grey or silver like Geralt’s appeared to be, a _true_ white, wearing a dressed down (and lighter in tones) version of what Geralt would tend to wear about an inn. 

To both of their surprises, Ciri passed right by Geralt and slammed into Jaskier. He grunted in surprise, stumbling a couple of steps back before he could get his arms around her, huffing. 

“Jaskier!” Her voice was lighter and more musical than he expected. He felt completely off-balance, although truthfully he had for a while. He moved a hand up to cup the back of her head and managed a laugh. 

“Oh! Oh, so he does talk about me, hm?” Jaskier shot the uncertain smile towards Geralt who looked-- his expression looked pinched like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or pleased. He knew that look too well. 

“Come now. You’re acting as if I returned from a war. I was only traveling.” Jaskier said, voice a little gentler, patting at her back. She squeezed him more tightly before pulling back, letting out a heavy breath - she was oddly emotional about him for knowing so little about him. 

And it must be only a bit because Geralt was terrible at telling stories. 

Still, she looked relieved and she smiled, a bit wobbly, at him. “It’s good to finally meet you.” She said, and Jaskier gave a little half bow.  
  
“And you, my lady.” He offered his own more sure smile, then. 

Vesemir emerged at the end of the room, shaking his head with a heavy sigh. “Good to see you both made it in one piece.” Gruff, but in some ways welcoming. Just as Geralt had said. 

“And good to meet you, as well, fine sir.” Jaskier straightened up, hands fluttering with nothing to do, ending up hooked around the strap of his lute as he watched the man approach. He walked like he carried a heavy weight on his shoulders, though Jaskier couldn’t see a thing. He knew that sort of walk. 

“ _This_ is the bard?” Vesemir asked Geralt, his nose wrinkling up a bit, and Jaskier lifted a brow. 

“The bard is right here. Yes, I’m--.” 

“Jaskier.” Geralt interrupted him. 

Jaskier offered up his hand and didn’t flinch from the man’s firm shake, but it was a near thing. 

He _did_ tuck his hand behind his back to flex it afterwards, making eye contact with Ciri who snorted softly at the motion. 

“Ought to introduce him to the boys. Ciri still has some reading to finish.” Vesemir gave her a firm look and Jaskier let himself be herded away, though he waved at her a little - they’d have time to sit and gossip a bit later. 

He’d make sure of it.

+++

Jaskier and Ciri became a force to be reckoned with. 

The two of them could talk sense into the house of rough witchers - or sense as _they_ called it - about bathing and _food_. Jaskier was more than aware of how the road didn’t provide any extra luxuries, but this was a fortress they’d made home. There were kitchens! They were damn well going to have some nice meals if Jaskier had anything to say about it. 

(And he did, of course he did. He always did.) 

Jaskier found Lambert grating. 

Lambert felt the same, as expected, and more often than not the two of them would bicker viciously if in the same room together. Lambert took more contracts if just to escape Vesemir and Jaskier - Geralt obviously cared about the witcher, but even he seemed to be on rocky ground with him. It made Jaskier’s skin prickle anytime Lambert shot off at the mouth. 

Eskel on the other hand? 

Jaskier liked him very much. He was quiet, like Geralt, but not brooding. Just calm. Rational, really, even if Jaskier didn’t always want to hear reason. (His heart had always had a tough time with reality.) 

Eskel was the sort to silently place himself beside Ciri, taking her side in an argument if it was something like what she wanted to make for dinner - or what afternoon plans might be. Eskel reminded Jaskier of what an older sibling _should_ be, though he’d never had one himself. 

Vesemir had an uneasy camaraderie with him. He had a feeling that the older witcher was appreciative of his work to make them appear less like-- well, monsters. That being said, he was aware that Vesemir thought he was too soft. Vesemir had been around a long time and there were two ways that one might adjust - Vesemir and Jaskier simply stood at polar opposites there. 

One couldn’t be soft or they would perish - one must be soft to survive in a world perishing around them. 

Jaskier had been staying at Kaer Morhen maybe a week and a half before he witnessed one of Ciri’s nightmares - it was when things just all around _changed_. 

Jaskier had woken in the middle of the night to _screaming_. It made the stones of the walls shake, the wood creak. Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat and he was scrambling from bed before he could even think about it, blearily trying to process. He fumbled for a tunic, hopping into a pair of breeches as he ran from his room. Geralt stood in his own open door, topless and staring down at Vesemir with a clenched jaw. Vesemir was speaking in low tones and Jaskier had the feeling that this had happened before. 

Golden eyes darted up, catching sight of him. There was the slightest shake of his head and Jaskier glanced down the hall, meeting Geralt’s eyes once more before darting past. It was a risk taking these halls barefoot, but he had more important things to worry about at the moment. 

Vesemir’s voice raised, calling after him, but he ignored it in favor of finding Ciri’s room. He pushed the door open, grunting with the force it took, immediately blasted with the sound of her wails. It made his ears ring and he grimaced, hissing. 

Jaskier was on a mission, though, and he wasn’t one to be dissuaded very easily. He took a deep breath and plunged into the room, barely making it to her bed - that wasn’t a normal scream, he’d acknowledge that. He had a terrible feeling that his ears might be bleeding, head aching. He climbed onto the bed, gathering the girl into his arms and tucking her against his chest where her wails stuttered and broke. The force in the room let up and it felt like he could breathe again, dizzy from it. He shushed Ciri, pressing his face to white hair as he settled her in close, rubbing a hand up and down her back. 

“You’re alright.” He managed, unable to hear his own voice. 

She made a wounded noise and began to sob, shaking in his arms. Jaskier, who truthfully knew very little about how to comfort anyone but himself, began to rock her gently from side to side. The soft and slow melody he’d been stuck on rolled out of his throat unbidden. 

“ _So I’ll clear the road, the gravel - the thornbush in your path_ .” Jaskier crooned quietly, moving the hand from her back up to pet through her hair that had fallen mostly loose from the ponytail she had pulled it back in before bed. “ _T_ _hat burns a scented oil that I’ll drip into your bath--_ ” Ciri’s sobs smoothed out into hiccuped breaths, her hands tangled in his tunic. “ _The water’s there to warm you_.”

Footfalls made him glance up, taking in the sight of Vesemir first and then Geralt at his shoulder. 

“ _And the earth is warmer when you laugh._ ” Jaskier met Geralt’s unreadable expression for only a moment, gaze dropping back down to Ciri as he continued to croon the soft song. Hiccups trailed to sniffles as he did and Jaskier’s ears weren’t ringing quite so terribly. 

“ _Love is a scene I render when you catch me wide awake - love’s a dream you enter though I shake and shake and shake you…_ ” Jaskier felt the back of his neck prickle and there was a sort of-- maybe embarrassment at the heartsickness of the song, but he didn’t pull away from Ciri until she’d calmed, Jaskier tucking her back under the covers. He pushed her hair back from her face, the tune under his breath still, sitting until he was certain she’d slipped back under after exhausting herself. 

It was with the utmost care that he lifted himself from the bed, shuffling out of the room and closing the door behind him to face the wrath of two witchers. 

“Geralt told me you were idiotic, but truly-” Vesemir hissed, Geralt standing tense beside him. 

“She’s a _child_.” Jaskier snapped. He’d never done well when backed into a corner. His words were his weapons and his mouth gathered as many as they could at the ready. 

“She’s powerful.” Vesemir retorted, nodding towards the room. “You’re lucky you didn’t end up dead. She wasn’t in control. She’s killed men before.” 

“That’s not a reason to let her suffer.” Jaskier squared his shoulders, crossing his arms. 

The bard didn’t look very big at all. He stood a handful of inches shorter than either witcher, dressed in a worn-soft tunic, pants mismatched in his hurry, shoeless, hair a disaster. With cornflower blue eyes and a frown marring his face, he looked no more threatening than a child throwing a tantrum. He was distantly aware of this. 

“It was a nightmare. She has to learn control, not softness.” Vesemir sounded on the edge of raising his voice and Jaskier-- 

“ _Shut up_ .” Jaskier advanced on the older witcher with a few quick steps, head tipped back just slightly to meet his gaze. Geralt took a half step towards the two of them, a hand reaching for Jaskier as if to pull him away - Jaskier shied from it and Geralt immediately pulled it back. It wasn’t _fear_ . He was-- _angry_. It took a lot for Jaskier to find true anger boiling inside, but- 

“She’s a _child_ . She’s not going to learn control in her _dreams_ . It’s senseless suffering. I know that your whole initiation and your _code_ demands some sort of distance from feelings, that you’re not allowed to get _close_ , but if you haven’t noticed it’s _bullshit_.” Jaskier nearly spat the words, voice hushed to keep from waking Ciri as he bristled. Geralt’s expression betrayed his surprise, although Vesemir remained stony. 

“Being hard and upset at the world doesn’t make anything better. It just makes the world a little rougher and a little angrier. I will not stand to the side and let that _happen_ to her.” Jaskier sucked in a breath, feeling a bit like he’d broken a bottle and all the contents were bound to come out no matter what he did. 

“I know what you think of me.” Jaskier muttered, glancing between Vesemir and Geralt. “I know you think I’m too soft. That I’m idiotic. That I’m clumsy and useless and a nuisance. That fashion and music and stories are frivolous.” Jaskier lifted his chin slightly. “But I know what and who I am. Being soft in this world is an act of conscious defiance. You have to choose it again and again and again. It’s _easy_ to shut yourself off from getting close. Getting hurt is _brave_.” 

Jaskier had to stop to catch his breath, hands trembling as he stood before two not-quite-men that could snap him in half. He had the audacity to call himself brave in front of two witchers, witchers who had thrown themselves into battle against countless monsters. He was a romantic fool and before either of the witchers could pull themselves from their shock, he shoved past their shoulders, marching down the hall back to his own rooms. 

Jaskier locked himself in just about the time his knees gave out, sliding to the floor as he leaned his back up against the wood of the door. He trembled there for an unknown amount of time, eventually calming enough to drag himself to his bed, curling up beneath the sheets still a mess. 

+++

The knocking came some time towards noon. 

The sun was shining through the windows by the time that Jaskier had managed to lift his head, peering at his door in confusion. The night before rushed back to him past the slight pounding at his temples and he groaned, shuffling over to the door and unlocking it clumsily. He pulled it open, surprised to find himself face to face with a fully dressed Geralt, one who didn’t bother to ask Jaskier anything at all before he was pushing past the bard to step into the room with a low hum. 

He was unfairly beautiful in the morning light. 

Jaskier groaned again and walked back to the bed, throwing himself down onto it face first. He didn’t move when he felt one side dip, nor did he move when Geralt settled himself on the bed beside him, sitting - his long legs stretched out in front of him with his back resting against the headboard. 

They stayed like that for a while, Jaskier eventually turning his face to breathe properly and peer up at Geralt with one blue eye. 

“Waiting for me to admit that I’m an idiot?” Jaskier prompted, quietly, voice slightly rough. “Because-”

“It’s not true.” Geralt rumbled, folding his hands and resting them loosely on his middle. He looked-- serene like that. Golden eyes turned to look down at him and for a moment they locked gazes. 

“What?” Jaskier asked, slowly, and rolled onto his back, staring up at the witcher. 

“You’re not an idiot, Jaskier.” 

Jaskier didn’t quite know what to say to that. Geralt looked away, slightly more uncomfortable than he had been a few moments before. 

Ah, there was the furrowed brow. He’d wondered when it would return. Geralt hummed a low noise and then continued. 

“You--” Words seemed to fail Geralt. Not that they usually didn’t, but this was the most he’d heard Geralt make an effort to say in a while. “You are not… entirely frivolous, either. Maybe a bit sometimes.” Jaskier’s hum of acknowledgement got lost under the witcher’s next words. “Stories-- carry weight. You’ve shown me that. And-- so does--” It sounded like it pained him to speak and Jaskier really thought about telling him to forget it, that he needn’t acknowledge any of it at all if he didn’t want to. “Being close. To people.” Stitled, but still offered in a quiet rolling voice that Jaskier thought about wrapping himself up in. 

“I didn’t want you to leave.” Geralt said, and Jaskier felt a hand grip his heart until it begged for mercy. 

“I didn’t _want_ \--” Jaskier started, brows furrowed as he moved to sit up, bracing a hand against the mattress. 

Geralt held up a hand and immediate Jaskier shut himself up - didn’t want to risk breaking-- whatever this was. 

“I didn’t want you to choose to leave.” _Like Yennefer had_ , Jaskier filled in without having to hear it, staring at Geralt dumbstruck. 

“So you made the decision for me?” Jaskier asked, when nothing else came for a solid minute. Geralt grimaced, a lip curling and a flash of sharp canine in his line of sight. 

“Yes.” Geralt said, and it was pained. 

“Geralt.” Jaskier started, stopped, and then just breathed. How could everyone call him a fool when Geralt of fucking Rivia was alive and well? “Geralt, forgive me - or don’t, whatever - but you’re dense. Beyond dense. Thicker than unbreakable stone. Is there actually a brain in that skull?” 

Geralt turned his head to pin Jaskier with a glare. 

“Don’t look at me like that. I traveled with you for _years_ and you thought I’d just up and leave? Just like that? I don’t know if you’d realized, but I was _quite_ happy with how things were, despite your all around grumpiness and hostility. You’re a good spark under all that and someone needed to fan it before all the shit in the world put it out.” Jaskier huffed, and sat up properly, his back against the headboard as well as he settled in next to the witcher. 

“By my choice I wasn’t going to leave, Geralt. I left because you wanted me to.” Geralt flinched and Jaskier sighed. “You did. I could hear it in your voice. You needed space. If that’s what you really thought, you’d already gotten to the belief that someday I was going to leave and you’d made peace with that. It had already happened in your mind and it wasn’t something I could change. If I had followed you then, you might have incapacitated me, left me on the side of that mountain out of spite. You were angry and hurt - like a whipped dog with oozing lashes. You were going to bite if I tried to help. So I let you go.” Jaskier breathed. “I let you go.” 

Silence reigned between them. Outside there was the dull sound of training swords clashing and Jaskier turned his gaze towards the window, watching the sky outside. 

“I’m-- sorry.” Geralt said. It sounded truly remorseful. 

Jaskier took a deep breath and then tipped himself slightly to the side, pressing his shoulder against the witcher’s. 

“I know.” 

+++

Jaskier somehow gets dragged into training with Ciri. 

He had protested, loudly, about his purposeful softness. About how he fully intended to never reach for a blade if there was a way to avoid it. 

No one listened. (Geralt did, but despite the gentler look he gave the bard, he didn’t let Jaskier wriggle his way out of this one.) 

Which meant-- 

Which meant that Jaskier was sweaty and shaking and _sore_ \- in the _worst_ ways. 

“This is unfair.” Jaskier wheezed, watching Geralt wave him forward. Jaskier huffed and puffed for a minute before tossing down the dagger Geralt had gotten him so long ago between them. “I’m done.” He managed, and then dropped himself down to sit in the grass, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair. “I’m done. Tapping out.” 

Geralt’s lips twitched and before Jaskier could really process, the witcher had lunged forward to scoop the blade off the ground, pushing Jaskier back and pinning him to the grass with the point pressing to his throat. Geralt lifted a brow - 

“Ooh.” Jaskier panted, “Scary face.” 

Geralt’s lips twitched again and then he was--- that was a _grin_ . Like a real one, unrestrained as Geralt made these weird huffing noises in the back of his throat. They turned into a soft growling noise and Jaskier realized he was _laughing_. 

Jaskier made a noise in the back of his throat - protest. “You didn’t laugh the first time!” He grumbled and Geralt only flipped the blade around and offered him the handle, chuckles easing into a pleased hum. 

“You’re done.” Geralt agreed, waiting for him to take the blade before he rolled to the side, sitting beside Jaskier where the bard had sprawled in the grass. It was with a clumsy hand that Jaskier tucked the blade away at his hip where the sheath had taken up a home at. 

He worked to catch his breath while Geralt bent his knees and rested his arms on them, looking for all the world unaffected from their sparring except for a little piece of loose hair that fell over his forehead. 

Jaskier’s fingers ached to tuck it behind his ear. 

Geralt wasn’t a maiden, though, and Jaskier closed his eyes, just listened to Ciri and Vesemir argue. 

When he’d managed to catch his breath, he pushed himself up to sit, bracing his hands against the ground, legs still splayed in front of him as he soaked in the sun. 

“This going to become routine? Because I need at least two days to recover.” Jaskier informed, tipping his head to rest it against his own shoulder, peering over at Geralt. 

“You don’t.” Geralt said, lips still tipped into something of a half smile, golden eyes turning on him. If Jaskier were pressed to describe the expression, it would have to be categorized as fond. 

“To recover? Oh, I do. All my limbs are like-- like a baby deer. If I tried to stand up, I’d fall down.” Jaskier informed, “My muscles don’t _do_ this. I don’t charge into battle against monsters for a living - I don’t have arms of steel.” 

Geralt snorted - “You need to build up some muscles. It will help with traveling.” He reached out, seemed to hesitate for a moment before he squeezed Jaskier’s shoulder and then pushed himself to stand. He headed for Ciri and Vesemir leaving Jaskier to watch. He had to admit, she certainly could keep up better than him - though he had to attribute most of that to her fiery spirit. 

+++

Kaer Morhen got cold quickly. 

The harvest moon hadn’t even come by the time Jaskier was shivering in the mornings. He caved and wore a coat on the worst of days, but he was a stubborn thing. 

As if all the inhabitants of Kaer Morhen weren’t aware of that the moment he got there. 

“We’re celebrating early.” Lambert announced one evening, while Jaskier huddled close to the fire they’d built outside. He’d wondered what all the fuss about eating outside was about, but that made _some_ sense at least. 

“Vesemir thinks it’s going to snow night of. Didn’t want to build a bonfire in it.” Eskel informed Jaskier, rolling his shoulders in a loose shrug. “But we get to drink, so it doesn’t much matter to me.” 

Jaskier hummed - “And Ciri?” 

“Vesemir will probably let her - let us pretty early on. If not, she’d find a way to get some.” Eskel sounded reasonable, but Jaskier wasn’t fond of that image. For the first time in a long time, he decided that maybe staying sober was a _better_ idea. 

So Jaskier beckoned Ciri over and they sat together, listening to the witchers recount tales - some of which Jaskier took upon himself to write down in his notes. They got set aside as the more lively night wore on into something quieter. Oddly enough, it was almost melancholy in the way they basked in each other’s company. 

Jaskier had taken up the lute, plucking soft melodies until Ciri leaned her head against his shoulder. 

“Play the song.” She requested and Jaskier pursed his lips. 

“Which-” 

“You know which one.” Ciri said, leaving no room for argument in her tone. It was telling that she knew just how well she had the lot of them wrapped around her fingers. Jaskier sighed, chewing on the inside of his cheek before allowing his fingers to work the tune from the strings. 

“ _Run like a race for family - when you hear like you’re alone_.” Jaskier started up the quiet crooning, tipping his head ever so slightly towards Ciri’s, intending to mostly sing it to the girl. He didn’t need Lambert ripping at his soft parts with his incessant pessimism. 

By the time he got to the first chorus, however, every pair of eyes had settled on him. It was a miracle he didn’t slip up, eyes focused on the flames in front of him. He was not unaware of the weight of Geralt’s gaze, but it he didn’t see the intensity of it, nor the way Lambert knocked his elbow against Eskel’s arm nodding towards Geralt. 

“ _Love is a tired symphony you hum when you’re awake_ .” Jaskier sighed softly, closing his eyes altogether to just forget about his audience - save for Ciri. Ciri needed to hear these soft lyrics - Ciri _needed_ softness from someone. 

When he reached the part he’d sung to her to soothe her from her nightmare, he was startled to find her joining him. He stumbled over a string or two before recovering, eyes opening to glance at her, a smile tugging at his face as they found their harmony a couple of lines later. 

When they finished the lyrics, Jaskier dragged out the tune, fingers playing with the strings and adding embellishments here and there until he was satisfied. He let the strings die out on their own and Ciri turned towards him to hug his side. Jaskier shook his head, sliding an arm around her shoulders to give her a light squeeze. 

She pulled away after to wander towards Vesemir - out of the four witchers Jaskier had to admit that it Vesemir he’d trust her with at the moment. Even Geralt, when he was drunk, could raise some hell. 

Jaskier was debating on whether to turn in or not when a body dropped down heavily next to him. Jaskier, who had been deep in thought and focused on the fire, startled just a bit. He turned to see Geralt, lifting a brow at him. 

“Why don’t you sing more songs like that?” Geralt slurred - and it seemed that alcohol would loosen even a witcher’s tongue. Jaskier considered the question for a few moments. 

“Townsfolk want to escape their lives. They want a tale - of heroes and good deeds. To escape the world around them. They don’t have space for--” Jaskier stumbled over his words. “For quiet love, I suppose.” He settled on, despite the way his skin prickled and a warning sound went off in the back of his mind. “Short answer is that people don’t want to hear it.” Jaskier rolled his shoulders in a shrug, tapping his fingers against the wooden body of the instrument, unable to keep still. 

“I do.” Geralt leaned towards him. Their shoulders were pressed firmly together, but Geralt’s focus was heavy on Jaskier’s face - he could feel the weight of his gaze. Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek - hard. 

“Hm. Well, keep that in mind next time you call my voice a filling-less pie.” Jaskier retorted, and Geralt flinched a little. A warm hand splayed on his lower back, making Jaskier jump a little, wide eyed as he looked at the witcher beside him. 

“Sorry.” Geralt slurred, just as remorseful as he had sounded in Jaskier’s rooms. 

Jaskier huffed, then, and color rose to his cheeks. “Sure you are.” He said (only a little breathlessly), and Geralt hummed a low noise, brows furrowed as he let his body rest against Jaskier’s. 

“Mean it. Your voice-- isn’t _that_ bad. Only-- only when you’re drunk. Can’t carry a tune when you’re drunk.” Geralt informed him, head tipping even _further_ into Jaskier’s space. 

“Geralt, _you’re_ drunk.” Jaskier said, trying to keep his rabbit heart from betraying him. 

“Hm.” 

And then Geralt was sliding that hand on his lower back to his side, arm wrapped around him, pulling Jaskier flush to his shoulder. Geralt emanated heat and Jaskier shuddered before melting - he hadn’t realized how cold he’d gotten. 

That’s the way they sat for the rest of the night, Geralt quietly providing a sturdy heat source. Jaskier could have written entire ballads to being allowed so close. 

+++

Things were a little different after the celebration of the harvest moon. 

Understatement. 

Things were a lot different. 

Jaskier suddenly was on the other side of the experience - where he used to follow Geralt around constantly it seemed now everywhere he turned Geralt was there beside him. Not to mention the fact that Geralt seemed have disregarded their _careful touching_ rule. It was no longer reserved for baths or getting patched up or back pats. Geralt occasionally put a hand to Jaskier’s lower back to steer him where he wanted to go, sat closer so that their sides brushed, and on the strangest of days the witcher would brush a hand over Jaskier’s elbow when he passed him to touch seemingly just because he could. 

It was-- good. Things were good. 

Jaskier didn’t know what it meant, but Geralt didn’t try to say he didn’t enjoy Jaskier’s company anymore. 

Vesemir would give them a strange look every time they stood before him - Jaskier would place it somewhere in the _knowing_ category, though he wasn’t sure what Vesemir _knew_. Eskel and Lambert were less subtle - Lambert especially - and Jaskier was constantly rolling his eyes or throwing rude gestures over his shoulder as he escaped the teasing with hopes that Geralt was just getting ribbed by family. 

When Geralt said they needed to get out for a while, Jaskier almost collapsed with relief. Never had Jaskier been so willing to pack his things and get onto the road. 

Jaskier had to admit that maybe he was quick to jump into action once they actually started leaving Kaer Morhen. He immediately wanted to turn back around for Ciri - and to get out of the snow.

It was better than past travels - Vesemir had loaned him a mare with the condition Jaskier had to bring her back in one piece. She was a grey mare, far more even-tempered than Roach. She trailed behind the chestnut without Jaskier even having to steer. It meant at a walk Jaskier could pluck at his lute and still provide some traveling music. 

“We’re going to Novigrad.” Geralt told him, finally - “Someone I know needs a favor.” 

“This someone have a name?” Jaskier asked, curiously, and Geralt hummed a low noise in response, glancing back at him. 

Unimportant, then. Jaskier rolled his eyes. 

They camped somewhere in the wilds of Velen on the way. There were some growls in the forest, but Geralt seemed confident that they wouldn’t be bothered. He watched Jaskier pluck at his lute for the better part of the evening, upbeat bleeding into something softer and gentle as the dark swallowed the world up.

Jaskier was restless - he found it hard to let himself relax for sleep despite his exhaustion when he finally laid down. Geralt grumbled low noises in the back of his throat until he seemed to reach a breaking point, huffing and hoisting himself up from his side of the fire. He circled around to drop himself heavily in the grass right beside Jaskier’s head. Jaskier flinched a little on instinct, but then blinked up at the witcher blearily - 

Geralt dropped a hand down to press his ungloved palm to Jaskier’s forehead. He swept away some of the bard’s hair from his forehead and Jaskier-- Jaskier’s heart damn near stopped. He breathed out shakily, shutting his eyes quickly in an attempt to keep himself from doing anything stupid. 

“Sleep.” Geralt said, apparently content to play lookout for the night. Despite Jaskier’s better judgement, he did exactly as told. 

When Jaskier woke in the morning, he was covered by Geralt’s traveling cloak and the man himself was cooking them breakfast over the small fire he’d made. 

Jaskier thought for a moment that life on the road wasn’t his favorite, certainly, but life with Geralt-- that was another matter entirely. He pushed himself up to sit, bracing his hands on the cold ground, Geralt’s gaze settling on him heavy - with that same sort of fond look. 

+++

Geralt stopped them to rest a second time, though it was far closer to Novigrad. They’d covered a lot of ground in one day and Geralt wanted to have all his energy for the morning. Jaskier asked just how much trouble his mysterious friend was in and although he received little more than a grunt he noted that Geralt hadn’t argued that witchers don't have friends this time. It was-- an interesting development. 

They got a single bed, as was usual to save coin, but entirely different was the way that instead of _facing_ the door, Geralt lay facing Jaskier with his back to the door. He still put himself between Jaskier and the entrance of the room, but his eyes faced the bard. 

Jaskier very nearly rolled onto his side to face the wall in an attempt to calm himself. 

Things had been changing between them - it would take a blind man not to see it and even then he might be able to hear it. That being said, Jaskier didn’t know what the changes were going to be. If this was something fleeting it might destroy him or--

And that was a possibility that he didn’t want to allow himself to linger on because that hope might very well destroy him, too. 

“I can sense you thinking.” Geralt rumbled, quietly, into the dark. Jaskier opened his eyes to stare up at the ceiling. It was pitch dark in the room and his eyes struggled to adjust, hands folded over his stomach as he tried to relax. 

“Sorry.” Jaskier said, but it didn’t carry any true apology. He couldn’t help how his thoughts raced - it had always been like that. 

“It’s a small favor.” Geralt muttered and Jaskier turned his head to look over at the witcher. In the dark he could barely see his silhouette, though the golden eyes reflected a bit of the low light, flashing at him. He knew Geralt could see him clearly and he did his best not to fidget. 

“Alright.” Jaskier said and Geralt huffed. Golden eyes flashed again - had he rolled his eyes? Rude-- 

A warm arm wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, tugging him against Geralt’s scarred body. The witcher tucked Jaskier up against his chest, maneuvering him around to be laying on his side, back against Geralt’s front. 

“Relax.” The witcher rumbled. Jaskier could feel it vibrate against his spine and he shuddered, hand fluttering about for a moment, ending up resting on the arm around him as he slowly melted back into the embrace. He couldn’t be blamed for being unable to resist Geralt’s body warmth. 

“We’ll be back to Ciri in a few days.” Geralt murmured, and Jaskier bit his tongue when the witcher pressed his nose into Jaskier’s hair. He swallowed thickly. 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier managed, voice nearly a croak as his hand circled around Geralt’s wrist, squeezing lightly. 

“Holding you.” Geralt muttered and sounded distracted. Jaskier hummed a low noise, half amused and half annoyed. 

They stayed like that for a while, Jaskier trying to think of a better way to phrase his question. He ultimately didn’t find one and fell asleep to the sound of Geralt’s soft snuffling. 

+++

The morning light woke him just as much as the arm tightening around him did. 

Jaskier mumbled a soft noise, turning his face towards the flat pillow in an attempt to hide his eyes from the sun. 

A soft series of noisy huffs against his hair told him Geralt was amused, but Jaskier didn’t feel like moving. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s sleep-rough voice was nearly in his ear and Jaskier startled a little with a low hum, turning his face enough to peer up at Geralt with one eye. It blinked a couple of times to try to clear out the fuzziness of rest, focusing on Geralt’s expression, on the soft gaze and the slight smile curling his lips. 

_Oh._

Jaskier stayed still for a couple of moments, finally reaching up a sleep-clumsy hand to tuck that stubborn piece of hair back from the witcher’s face. He twisted a little, turning his head so that he could look up at him properly, his heart so full that it _hurt_. 

“You came back.” Geralt murmured, voice low in the space between the two of them. 

“So did you.” Jaskier pointed out, hand hovering in the air between them before hesitantly brushing fingertips feather-light over his temple and down his cheek. 

“For good.” Geralt told him, simply, turning his head to nuzzle into Jaskier’s palm. 

How anyone could hate someone so tender-hearted at his core, Jaskier would never understand. 

“Hm.” Jaskier decided on, and leaned up from the pillow to kiss him. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed the ride. 
> 
> You can come scream with me on tumblr at xdandelionxbloomx and if you want the playlist I wrote this to you can find it on my tumblr under the tag #my posts. 
> 
> The song that Jaskier sings a couple of times in this fic is called Lion's Mane by Iron & Wine and you can find it on YouTube and Spotify!


End file.
